


That Walketh in Darkness

by out_there



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-15
Updated: 2006-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was muttering about governments and secrets, and saying in a torn, horrified voice: clones, Rodney, clones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Walketh in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/profile)[**svmadelyn**](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/) and [](http://seperis.livejournal.com/profile)[**seperis**](http://seperis.livejournal.com/)'s [13 Challenge](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/353004.html). Thanks to [](http://scribewraith.livejournal.com/profile)[**scribewraith**](http://scribewraith.livejournal.com/) for a quick beta, even if I didn't agree about the capitals (I could be wrong). Heavily "inspired" by The Island (which I'll recommend as a great action film filled with pretty, pretty people). The title comes from [Psalm 91](http://www.bartleby.com/108/19/91.html#6):
> 
>  _Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night;  
>  nor for the arrow that flieth by day;  
> nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;  
> nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday._

The Residence was wide and spacious; huge rooms of open concrete blocks and white walls. The Residence -- that was how they'd always termed it, it was all any of them really knew of the world -- housed 1,723 adults who had been saved from the Pestilence, who were working on rebuilding the world, rediscovering the science to heal it.

1,723 men and women lived within the underground bunker, studying and theorizing, waiting to find the solution to the now-toxic atmosphere or waiting for the latent disease within them to break free; waiting to save Earth or to be sent to the infirmary to die in peace.

They had all entered the Residence in the same way: through the decontamination doors. They were always weak and thin when brought in, unknowing and unaware due to the disease eating through their memories, leaving them blank-eyed and lost.

They had been named. First names were random, chosen from a list of common names. Surnames referred to where and when they were found: John A-7, for example, had been found in Afghanistan; Rodney R-5 had been found in Russia; Sam A-2 had been in the worst of it, in the middle of the former United States of America.

It always took time to acclimatize the newly-found. Some took months of careful teaching, of being slowly reminded of words and numbers. Others learned quickly but had hallucinations from the disease -- rambled about the Earth being whole and stable, about cities crowded with life -- and tried to leave the Residence.

John A-7 was one of those.

Rodney had tried to reason with him, tried to explain that if John broke the seals protecting the Residence they would all be infected again, they would all die from the exposure. He'd tried to explain the symptoms of the disease: the way it could give you false memories of blues skies and vibrant plants; the way it could convince you that the world outside was safe and welcoming.

He'd tried to explain that the effects wore away over time. That given enough time inside the Residence, given wholesome food and important medication, the false memories blurred. The sharp edges -- dark silhouettes of winter trees cutting into the dusky sky, the distinct taste of snow-filled air on your tongue -- the defined moments would fade, would leave you.

John had to wait, had to bide his time, Rodney told him.

John didn't.

He tried to leave the Residence, sneaking out the decontamination doors and waiting for someone new to be found, waiting for a chance to escape through the same door that had saved him.

He was shot through the shoulder, brought to the infirmary and they were all told the tale. How the disease had overtaken his mind, how it was only a matter of time before it took the rest of him. He had been liked enough that there was a moment of silence when the labs were told. For a moment, people stopped their work on vacuums and space and untainted energy, and mourned the pointless destruction of the disease.

Rodney had argued, had complained, had bullied until he was allowed to see John. He had to wear gloves and a mask to avoid the risk of infection, but it seemed unfair that John should die alone.

He had sat there, holding John's hand between his own latex-covered ones, and listened to the nonsense ravings of the infected. Listened to John tell him it was a lie, it was a conspiracy, that the earth wasn't ruined, that the human race was safe. Nodded as John said, No, you don't understand, I saw them.

I saw the others, John said. Hundreds, maybe thousands. In monstrous plastic wombs, a whole hall of them, all made to order. We're not survivors, John managed to say as his breathing became irregular, as he shuddered.

His fingers clawed into Rodney's, fingernails hurting through the gloves, and his eyes were wide and edged with white.

Rodney made those senseless comforting noises known to everyone and wished that he wasn't there. Wished that John had listened to him, that John had taken stronger medication, had waited and let his body and mind recover. Instead, John was muttering about governments and secrets, and saying in a torn, horrified voice: clones, Rodney, clones. John was delusional, gaze skimming around the room, and Rodney wondered if he should have come, if John even knew he was there.

This was the reason that those infected were taken to the infirmary and not allowed visitors. Rodney understood that now. It was too painful to watch the muscles seize, to hear the last wet-sounding gasps. To listen to John call his name, to ask for impossible promises: things that Rodney promised easily -- to break out, to spread the truth -- because it seemed kinder to lie to John than to argue the truth. Encouraging his delusions couldn't harm him now.

After the final gasp happened, the final tremble, when John lay quiet and still, limp as a rag doll, Rodney sat transfixed. He held John's cooling hand until the doctors came to lead him to an examination room.

As they took blood samples -- testing for infection, we don't think it can be spread that way but no point taking chances -- they asked what John had said.

Rodney shook his head. Nonsense, he'd told them, the same thing most of the infected say: that they can live outside. He wanted to see the sky, said that he could remember clouds rushing past him.

Is that all, they asked.

That was all that made sense, Rodney replied, taking the medication they gave him and trying to swallow past the tightness of his throat. Then he confessed.

I told him to wait. When he told me about his false memories, I didn't report him to the infirmary. I just told him to wait. I thought he'd get better, if he just waited and let the medication take effect, he would have got better.

But they never do, one doctor said, her eyes soft and brown. Once you report them, we can force them to take the medications and sometimes they heal. But left alone and contaminated, they try to leave, try to kill themselves and everyone else.

Then she stood, all the time watching him with that soft, careful expression. Rodney R-5, she said, surely you understand now why it is so important to look after the newly-found, to protect them from the disease within?

Rodney nodded.

He spent the next few hours roaming the halls of the Residence, remembering eating with John in the canteen, or staring at the records of the Pestilence. Remembered standing in the labs and reminding John of mathematical laws, thinking that John could be so helpful, so important in their struggle to save Earth.

Sam found him sitting in one of the corridors later, and told him things he already knew. That the disease could not be cured, only controlled. That twenty percent of the newly found had been too exposed, too deeply damaged to be saved. That the only thing he could do was keep working, keep trying, because the harder they all worked, the less useless, meaningless deaths would occur.

He followed her advice, let her lead him back to the labs and look at equations he hadn't thought about since John had been found.

Months later, years later, when the work seemed nearly impossible, when the disease started killing more of the newly-found, more of the established population, when those around him became disheartened or crazed, stopped working or tried to leave, he would remember John A-7. Would remember that last horrible breath, the pale shine to his face, the hand clawed between his, and he'd work harder knowing that he had to, that it was the only way to fix things.

It was the only way to give meaning to one senseless, unnecessary death.


End file.
